Skyrim: 2013
by malachi3134
Summary: In the summer of 2013, a Khajiit detective gets called to track down a seasoned killer in Riften. He ends up on a quest that leads him through modern-day Skyrim. Please review. Thank you.
1. A Call to Action

**I hope you enjoy this modern-day tale of Skyrim. Times have changed, but some crime never goes away.**

**Please review. I will add more chapters soon.  
**

Another day, another phone call.

Lharko answered with his usual caution. "Hello?" he growled in the Imperial tongue.

"We got a job for you. Riften. The Ratway." The voice sounded agitated and hoarse, like he hadn't slept in a week, but the accent was clearly Nordic.

"Can Lharko ask who's calling?"

"Never mind that," barked the weary voice. "Just get over here by tomorrow. Meet me at the Riften PD."

Lharko checked his watch. It was already getting late, almost eight. From the window of his 37th floor office, he could see the last rays of scarlet sunlight disappearing behind the western mountains. He hadn't feasted since daybreak, and his stomach gave off a feline growl.

"Lharko will have to check in with the boss," he assured him. "But he'll what he can."

"Don't check with the boss," came the harried reply. "I just want you."

Lharko stared at the phone for a second before hanging up, leaving his caller in uncertainty. That was how he worked. Keep 'em guessing.

It was time to head out. If he had to fly out to that hellhole tomorrow to track down Talos-knows-who, he would want a good night's sleep first. Lharko opened his desk drawer, pulled out the .44, and slid it into his belt. That fine piece of Deadric steel always stayed within easy reach. He scooped the pile of unsorted papers off his desk and slid them into his dark briefcase.

"Care to join me supper, Lharko?" asked Balladir, a jovial High Elf who towered almost a foot above Lharko's head.

"No thanks. Lharko's hittin' up the Fish Hole." He knew Balladir's style. He would invite you out to the fanciest tavern in Whiterun, and then make you pay for it. Lharko's budget was tight enough as it was. Besides, he was dying for some real food, and some ale to wash it down. Maybe a few shots of Skooma to go with it, but nothing too serious. He had to keep his mind as sharp as his claws.

He left the glass building in the Plains District and took the metro down to the Southside, where the sewage of Whiterun gushed out into the foul-smelling White River. The train was full, mostly of dark-skinned Imperials and Redguards. They had been migrating north to Skyrim over the last few years, ever since the Skooma wars had heated up down south. Most of the immigrants lived by the river, where crime festered like a skeever bite. Lharko was used to it, though. At least it wasn't Riften.

Commuters hopped on and off the train as they descended through the inner city. At one point, a Nord with a thick blond moustache stepped through the doors and swaggered up to Lharko's seat. "Gimme your seat, rug." he muttered in Nordic, using the same old slur that had been around since the old times, when Nords had still carried axes.

"Certainly," Lharko growled, rising in mock deference. "Just try to watch the tail."

The Nord grinned foolishly, trying to nudge Lharko out of the way, until a thick furry tail swung around and jabbed him right below the belt. The man buckled over in pain, clutching his groin, as the rest of the commuters gasped.

"Helps to have something hanging between your legs," Lharko murmured as he sauntered off the metro.

He came out just a few blocks from the Fish Hole, a favorite nightclub of all the Khajiit in Whiterun. Rarely did a man show up at the door without whiskers and a tail, and when he did, Barugo the bartender gave him such a puzzled look he usually shuffled right back out.

He found his usual early-night crowd at the bar. With a toothy grin and a greeting purr, Barugo asked what he would like to drink.

"The usual. Red ale on the rocks. With a touch of Juniper."

Barugo popped open a bottle and poured the sweet-smelling liquid into a tall glass. "How's the girl, Lharko? She ever gonna decide to move north?"

"Nah, Lharko doubts it," he replied, taking a hearty gulp of the bubbling malt beverage. By the Nine Divines, it was good. "Lharko keeps tellin' her he got room, but she can't get too far away from the jungle. You know how some cats are."

"Sure do," Barugo grumbled, leaning his elbow on the table. In the corner, a singer was bellowing out the native songs of Elsweyr. The familiar tunes brought a poignant sense of longing to Lharko's pointed ears.

"Lharko won't be stayin' too long," he explained, after draining his glass. "Got to make some phone calls. Gonna be a killer day tomorrow."

"Have it your way," Barugo shrugged.

Lharko paced around the nightclub, chatting with a few of his old drinking friends for a minute, and gobbling down a couple of steamed slaughterfish. Having quenched his appetite, he tossed a few septims on the table, muttered his goodbyes and hurried out of the tavern into the cool night air. The putrid smell of the river wafted up to his overly sensitive nostrils. The curse of the cat, they called it. If someone passed wind a mile away, your nose never forgot it. But his nose had gotten him his job, along with his claws and muscle.

He gazed out at the dark river, visible only between the gaps of neon-lit strip clubs and skooma houses. Not tonight, he thought. A few dozen miles to the south, the Throat of the World towered over the city, taller than even the most ambitious of Whiterun's flashy skyscrapers. And somewhere out there, way off to the east, was Riften. Sin city, they called it. The hellhole. Back in the old days it had been run by some kind of Thieves' Guild, in the centuries since, things hadn't improved. Lharko sighed. The last time he'd been in Riften, he'd been a lad of seventeen, and would've died if it hadn't been for some Nord who saved his tail at the last second.

But Lhargo never turned down a call, not when he could help it.


	2. Checking In

**Chapter 2: Checking In**

The alley was so narrow Lharko could spread his arms and touch a paw to each wall. Other Khajiit slouched against the buildings, swatting bugs with their tails and begging for a few septims. Lharko kept walking.

He found his apartment, a run-down brick tenement. His yellow eyes guided him through the darkness. No streetlights in this part of town. That was probably the reason most men and mer didn't set foot in it, and the cats liked it that way.

"You're back mighty early," growled his lanky neighbor, Gurjon, whose orange fur had turned brown from all the grime of the city. "Slow night down at the pub?"

"Lharko's got business to attend to," he replied, trotting into the building and up the narrow staircase. He reached his apartment, a one-room den on the fifth floor with no windows. He still hadn't bothered to furnish it in the two months since he had gotten this job in Skyrim. A thin cotton mattress lay in one corner, probably crawling with fleas. The rest of the floor was bare, except for a few bottles of ale and some cans of tuna that he had been saving for hard times.

He decided to call the boss first.

"Triple I Headquarters. May I help you?" said the preppy voice of a Wood Elf secretary.

"Get Ramona, please," he growled, waiting a few seconds for his boss to pick up.

"Lharko. I've been meaning to talk to you," she answered immediately.

He spared her the pleasantries. "Lharko got a call a couple of hours ago. They had blocked the Caller-ID. Said it was the Riften Police Department, wanted Lharko to come over and check things out. Sounded like just another attack in the Ratway. You know how it is down there."

"And what does he want from you?"

"That's what Lharko's asking. He checked the Riften crime report online, but nothin' jumped out."

"It'd be a national holiday if somebody didn't get rugged in that hellhole."

"You got that right," he sighed, easing himself down onto the filthy mattress. A long pause followed.

At last, Ramona broke the uneasy silence. "I can send you a couple of associates to help investigate. You know, in case you're up against something you can't handle."

Lharko snorted. "Like what?" he replied cockily.

She chuckled. "My bad, Lharko. Didn't mean to offend. You are the best in the Institution. But please be careful out there."

"Ramona, listen," he growled. "Lharko will be fine. It's his job. Don't send anyone along. If they die, it'll be Lharko's fault, and you know how he'll feel about that."

"I know," she replied weakly.

"Just book a flight to Riften," he ordered. "As early as possible."

He waited for her to surf the web. "I can get you one at seven tomorrow morning," she offered with a touch of regret. "That'll get you to Riften by nine-thirty. That all right?"

"Perfect. Lharko will keep you updated," he assured her. "Don't worry. He's got this."

He hung up before he got a chance to reconsider. Now the chips were down. He had sounded a lot more confident than he felt. Lharko's fur began to rise from his skin at every hoot and holler he heard through the flimsy walls. Why had his boss sounded so nervous? He knew she valued his life, but Ramona usually barked her orders with cold austerity, if not hostility. After all, she had worked in the Imperial Intelligence Institution a long time – and the work had hardened her. If Ramona was worried, he probably should be too, if he ever wanted to see Cyrodiil again.

Biting back his irritation, Lharko lay down on the mattress, trying to get comfortable, but never quite managed it. He sat up again, rubbing his face in his paws. What was the big deal? He had taken hundreds of calls, maybe thousands, in the eight years since he had joined the Institution. But none had given him the same queasy feeling.

It was getting late. He had to call Maroka before she turned in. His girlfriend down in Elsweyr didn't like being woken up at night, even by Lharko.

"Sweetheart? It's Lharko," he purred when she picked up.

"Oh, darling!" she began. "Why haven't you called? Maroka's been lonely."

"Not so lonely that..."

"That she's taken up with another cat?" she gasped. "Is that what you were going to say? How dare you accuse Maroka of such things!" she hissed.

"Sweetheart, settle down now," he soothed. "Lharko will come visit you soon. Once he's done with this mission."

She sighed, and it sounded more like a meow. "Isn't it always some other mission? When will you ever come home?"

He bit his lip. He always had to weigh his words carefully with Maroka, especially after he had been transferred to Skyrim. "Soon, Maroka. Just got to settle some business first."

"What kind of business?" she pried.

"Maroka, sweetheart, Lharko can't tell you, or else he might be putting you in danger."

She gasped. "You mean you don't know what you're up against."

"Nothing Lharko can't handle," he assured her.

"That's what you tell Maroka every time."

"And it's true, isn't it?" he boasted.

"Goodbye, Lharko."

"You'll be waiting when Lharko returns?"

She took an audible breath. "Yes," she replied. "If you return."

"Don't talk like that, sweetheart."

"Goodbye, Lharko." she repeated, this time with more finality.

"Lharko loves you..." he said weakly, but she had already hung up.

He slammed down the phone and let out a feline hiss, swishing the air with his tail. Why in the name of Talos had he let Ramona transfer him to Skyrim. Skyrim, of all places. What good was a Khajiit up here? He never thought he would miss his native Elsweyr, with all its mosquitoes and plagues and thieves and smugglers, but at least then he had had Maroka. Here he had no one.

He would board the plane tomorrow for Riften. Until then, he would try to sleep. But that night Lharko slept no more soundly than a werewolf. His tail swished violently, his fur stood on end. and he purred with an unsteady rhythm. He had this job for a reason, he kept telling himself. He was a trained killer, an expert detective, and unparalleled in stealth. So why was he so afraid?

**That brings us to the end of Chapter 2. Next chapter will bring us to Riften. Thanks for reading. I'll update soon.**


	3. A Guest at Dawn

**Chapter 3: A Guest at Dawn**

Lharko awoke to the pungent smell of man.

He sniffed once. Twice. Then his pointed ears stood up. He heard someone fiddling with the lock on his door. And from the sound of it, the intruder was about to succeed.

The Khajiit crept over to the wall on the far side of the door. He waited.

The door rattled violently, stopped for a moment, and then swung open, sending a light draft across his whiskers.

It was a Nord all right. And not his landlord. By the looks of him, the man had been pumping some iron. And by the smell of him, this wasn't his first trip to the dark part of Whiterun.

"I ain't here to play games with you, cat," he snarled, eyeing only the empty mattress.

"Good, because you'd be losing," Lharko whispered, leaping at him from behind the door with the agility only a cat could muster. Before the thug had time to turn his head, Lharko's claws had already sunken into his swollen bicep. The man grunted in pain and attempted to shoot. But Lharko had taken away his balance, and the bullet went awry, blasting a hole in the opposite wall rather than Lharko's skull.

Muscle, but no speed. Like so many juiced-up thugs. Lharko let out a sigh as he pinned the man's face down on the rough floorboards, digging his claws into the man's neck. Fools like this one made his job almost too easy.

"Who sent you?" Lharko hissed, ignoring the terrified yowls of Khajiit who had been awakened by the gunshot.

"Someone you don't want to meet," the vanquished man growled into the floor.

Lharko dug his claws deeper into the human's flesh. "Think Lharko hasn't heard that one before?"

As he waited for a response, a crowd of nervous Khajiit had begun to gather at the door. "Go back to bed, ladies," Lharko murmured in a suave purr. "Everything's all right."

"Really?" asked Saioka, one of Lharko's neighbors. "Who've you got there?"

"Just another drunk burglar, out looking for a fight," he replied, easing up his grip a little as scarlet blood began to gush out of the man's brawny neck.

The crowd slowly dispersed, except for Saioka, who kept her ears perked. Lharko resumed his interrogation.

"What do you want from me?" the man growled from under him.

"A urine sample, perhaps? No, you dumbass, Lharko wants the name of your employer."

The brute remained silent for a few seconds, waiting for Lharko to let up. When he never did, the man confessed an answer. "Mark Raymond," he mumbled.

"Interesting," Lharko replied. The name meant nothing to him. He kept one claw on the man's neck, while reaching for his phone with the other. "Let's see if you're telling the truth."

Lharko typed the name into his mobile internet browser. Service was poor in this side of town, so it took a while for the search results to come up. Finally, up came a mug shot of a stern human face against the backdrop of feet and inches. Mark Raymond wore a short goatee, had a low forehead, and the dark skin of a Redguard.

_Raymond, Mark_, read the caption. _Age: 41. Race: Human. 6'4", 270 lbs. Released from Eastmarch Correctional Facility on 9 Frostfall 2012 after completing a 20-year sentence. Currently charged with skooma possession. Location: Unknown. Wanted by the Riften PD, the Eastmarch PD, and the Imperial PD. 5000 septim reward for anyone who turns him in._

"Sounds like a badass," Lharko remarked. How had he not met this guy before? He put down the phone. "Any idea where I might find him?" he growled into the man's ear.

"Raymond likes to stay on the move," the thug groaned. "Just let me up."

Lharko relaxed his grip. "Saioka?" he called. The Khajiit woman came rushing in. She was an ugly one, with matted white fur and hardly any chest at all, but she could be trusted. Lharko handed her the man's gun, which lay on the floor beside him. "Make sure the man doesn't leave until the cops get here. Lharko's got an errand to run."

"Yes, Saioka will stay."

"Thanks," he murmured before dashing out of the room. It helped to have neighbors you could count on. Most of the time.

He had gathered up his briefcase, his Daedric pistol, and his phone, before heading out. He checked his messages. No new texts from Maroka or the boss. It was already almost six o'clock, and the flight left at seven.

_Can't Lharko even get a night's rest before he gets himself killed? _The thought attacked him out of nowhere, and he pushed it to the back of his mind. This mission wasn't any more dangerous than any other. And maybe the thug had nothing to do with the mysterious phone call the day before.

Then again, what were the odds of that?

Lharko hustled toward the subway, keeping his head down and his pistol cocked. Mark Raymond. At least he had gotten a name.

**Thanks for reading, everyone. Chapter 4 will be here soon. I like to keep the chapters short. Be sure to write a review, please. I would like some criticism and feedback. **


	4. Above the Fray

**Chapter 4: Above the Fray**

The subway was nearly empty, which had its ups and downs. Fewer people to keep an eye on. But also fewer places to hide.

Not that he could do much hiding, anyway. Khajiit didn't go to the Whiterun Airport much. After he switched trains at Dragon Central Station, there was only one other cat aboard. The rest were men and mer, looking prim and proper in their business attire. Lharko wore the same crumpled suit as yesterday.

A red-haired Khajiit met him by surprise in the airport terminal. "Good morning, Lharko," he spoke in the native tongue of Elsweyr, not the mangled cat dialect of the Imperial speech.

"And you as well," he replied with caution. Glancing at the unfamiliar cat's waist, he saw that his acquaintance wore a .45 Daedric just like his.

"The name's Diergo," announced the stranger as they began to pace down the hallway. "He's a new recruit. Triple-I sent him to accompany you."

Lharko eyed him warily. He had told Ramona not to send anyone, but had she listened? Lharko remained silent until he knew a little more.

"Diergo saw what happened this morning," the Khajiit explained. "For a mission like this, you need another cat at your back. You're a high-profile agent, but Diergo's expendable."

"So you think a high-profile agent needs a bodyguard?" Lharko growled.

"No, but he might need someone to watch his luggage."

They approached the baggage check. As Lharko removed the pistol from his belt, Diergo whispered to him, "Diergo knows how to enchant that. You might consider a tracking device in case that fine piece of steel doesn't show up at the baggage claim."

"And if it doesn't?" Lharko murmured. He rarely trusted magic, and only went to an alchemist when he was violently ill.

"Then the weapon will show up right here, on GPS," Diergo whispered, pulling out his phone, which was even more high-tech than Lharko's. "Diergo will track down the unfortunate thief, and that sucker's history. A Khajiit's never unarmed. But you already knew that."

"Sure did," Lharko agreed. He had to admit, the plan sounded plausible. And he was giving up his gun for the flight, anyway, so what did he have to lose? "Shake on it," he decided. They shook paws and sauntered up to the lady at the baggage booth. A minute later, the two enchanted weapons had disappeared down the conveyer belt and out of sight.

"Oh, and here's your ticket," Diergo added, handing Lharko a small slip of paper.

"Lharko was wondering about that," he mused.

"Come on, they're gonna start boarding soon," Diergo urged.

They made it through security with no difficulties except for a snobby High Elf officer who taunted him, "I thought cats slept in until noon. You know the skooma shops aren't open this early."

"How do you know so much about that drug?" Lharko replied with a smile, though he really felt more like sticking his claws through the Elf's perfect golden skin. He could tell Diergo was boiling with anger as well.

The Elf's skin turned a bright shade of red as he went back to his work. Once through security, the two Khajiit resumed their course through down the terminal, brimming with businessmen yawning in the day's early hours. "Is everyone in Skyrim that racist?" Diergo growled. This was his first trip north, apparently.

"No, just the Elves," Lharko chuckled. "But they can't help it."

Lharko rounded a corner to find himself face to face with the most powerful man in the world. Emperor Tony Valcito's swarthy Imperial face smiled down at him from a familiar poster on the wall. _Vote for Tony. He ain't no Phony, _read the large block letters beneath the photo. "Brilliant slogan," Diergo scoffed.

Lharko merely grunted. Most of the posters showed not the clean-shaven Emperor, who was up for re-election in December, but the bearded face of Bors Beornik, his challenger, born and raised in Skyrim. In the latest debate, the Emperor was greeted with groans when he quipped, "He just Bors me to death!" That was about the extent of humor that came out of Cyrodiil. At least the Nord candidate, who carried a hunting rifle half the time and looked like he could scowl the snows off Mount Anthor, had the dignity not to laugh at his own jokes. The grimacing portraits of Beornik held no slogan whatsoever, only the simple word _Vote. _

"Any idea who you'll be voting for?" Diergo asked as they quickened their pace toward the end of the terminal.

"Beornik. Who else?"

"You'd vote for a Nord?"

"Lharko will vote for any man who will let him carry a gun on an airplane. Won't have to go through this nonsense anymore."

"But don't you think having every citizen armed would be a bit excessive? That doesn't worry you?"

"Not with the training you get at Triple-I. If you can't defend yourself, find a friend who can. Word to the wise."

They walked in silence for a while. In truth, Lharko didn't care much at all who won the election. A man as radical as Bors Beornik would never win over the southern states. But the northern states were bound to vote for their native Nord. Triple-I considered itself above politics, and it like to stay that way.

"How long until they put a Khajiit on the throne?" asked Diergo.

"Not until Atmora thaws out," Lharko replied bleakly, referring to the frigid northern continent that had lain buried under sheets of ice for thousands of years. Khajiit had never had much of a presence in government, and it was likely to stay that way for several centuries more. Tony Valcito had come into office promising fair treatment of all races, but a fat lot of good that had done on the streets of Whiterun.

"There's our gate," Lharko announced, pointing toward the electronic sign that announced their departure for Riften at 7:05.

They handed over their boarding passes without comment. The stewardess merely said, "Have a nice day." They found their seats toward the back, so Lharko had time to scout out every passenger to see if he was hiding something. None of them struck him as suspicious.

"Coast is clear," Diergo whispered.

"Keep your eyes open anyway."

Within minutes they had taken off. Lharko had always hated airplane seats, since they never left room for the tail. He took the aisle seat, while his associate gazed out the window. On their right, the Throat of the World towered over the plane, even as it entered the clouds.

"Diergo would buy you a drink," the Khajiit offered.

"Just some cold water," Lharko replied. "Even a cat doesn't drink this early." Besides, he needed to stay sharp. He had no idea what was waiting for him in Riften. He had a strong feeling Mark Raymond wasn't the end of the story.

**Thanks for reading, everyone. I'll update again soon. Until then, Happy Holidays!**


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